


(not quite) a walk in the park

by whiplash



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Athos and Porthos find themselves hurt and stranded in the forest. (Kink meme fill.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(not quite) a walk in the park

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "On one of the missions when they're split up, Porthos and Athos run into trouble, and have to patch each other up, without Aramis' surety or expertise."
> 
> I kinda mucked it up, but anon prompter was kind enough to forgive me <3

Blood pools in his mouth and he turns his head to spit. The way his tongue keeps finding the gap where a tooth ought to be serves as a constant reminder of the injury. It does precious little to improve his mood. Half a lifetime spent brawling, the other half soldiering and this is the first tooth he's lost. It's galling. There's no other word for it. Especially as he won't even have a good story to tell for his loss.  
  
Athos kneels down next to him, tugging off one of his gloves with his teeth before he runs his finger over the skin stretched tightly over Porthos' jaw. He doesn't have Aramis' light touch, causing Porthos to bat after the offending hand.  
  
"You'll live," Athos pronounces, though Porthos finds his voice decidedly lacking in confidence. Closing his eyes to block out the sun, he allows his head to fall back towards the tree against which Athos has propped him. His head throbs and the world tilts in a way it oughtn't when you were sober.  
  
"You hurt?" he asks, or tries to at least. The words come out garbled, his stiff jaw refusing to move as it should and his tongue an uncooperative lump in his mouth. It's a testament to the many years they've served together that Athos apparently manages to make out his question.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
An obvious lie, given away as much by the half-ass attempt at a sincere delivery -- had he actually been fine, Athos' voice would have been flat and cool -- as well as by the fact that Porthos has a clear memory of the other man crying out in pain during the battle. Forcing his eyes open, squinting in the much too bright light, he tries to get a better look at his friend.  
  
Athos looks strangely lopsided. Porthos frowns, an old memory making itself known. Flea, tumbling down a low roof, tears trailing down her dirty face as she struggled to get to her feet. He'd never seen her cry before and the sight of it had scared him. As it turned out she had broken one of the thin bones which connected the neck to the shoulder. It had healed, though not well. Years later he'd still been able to feel where the break had mended together.  
  
He shakes his head, like an ox trying to rid himself of a buzzing fly. The motion makes him dizzy and for a while he just drifts.  
  
"Can you walk?" Athos asks. Porthos opens his eyes -- when had they fallen shut? -- to find the sun setting behind the treetops. He shivers, wondering for a moment why Athos hasn't built a fire. Then he remembers. Outlaws. Poorly armed and with little training, but simply too many in number for just two Musketeers. They'd fought them off, but they'd surely be back to finish what they'd started.  
  
"Porthos?"  
  
"Mm...?"  
  
Athos repeats his question, waiting patiently as Porthos parses the words.  
  
"Do I have a choice?" he eventually asks.  
  
What comes out of his mouth sounds more like _"o ah av a choss?"_  
  
"Well," Athos says, "you have the choice of walking or staying here to get slaughtered when they return."  
  
Put that way, Porthos allows Athos to help him to his feet.  
  
xxx  
  
It's a long way back to the village where they'd left Aramis and d'Artagnan to wait for them.  
  
Unwilling to lean on Athos after the first attempt to do so sends them both crashing against the ground -- Athos crawling a less than respectable distance away before pure pain causes him to empty his stomach -- Porthos fashions himself two walking sticks. As a bonus, he figures they might come in handy should they come across any more outlaws. Part of him hopes that they will, feeling that he has a score to settle on account of his lost tooth. A more reasonable part recognizes that they're in no shape to fight any battles.  
  
"Aramis will set us right," he says, as much to reassure himself as Athos.  
  
There's sweat beading on Athos' forehead and his face looks sallow in the moon light. The shoulder's been dislocated, that much is clear to any fool in possession of a minimum of one good eye. Athos, of course, isn't just a fool, but a pig-headed martyr as well so he sticks to his claim that he's fine. Aramis will set him right, Porthos repeats to himself. He'll fix Athos' shoulder and make one of his stinky compresses for the throbbing bruise that is Porthos' face. Maybe even stitch up the cut by his eye so that it won't leave too much of a scar.  
  
Not much Aramis can do about the tooth, of course, but Porthos won't hold that against him.  
  
xxx  
  
They stop by a river, resting long enough to drink and tend to their injuries.  
  
Porthos watches as Athos dip his scarf into the water, struggling to wring it out and fold it into a less than neat square using just the one hand. He then returns to the patch of grass where Porthos has chosen to sit. Or perhaps he ought to say, where his shaky legs made the decision for him.  
  
"May I?" Athos asks, polite enough to ask but not enough to wait for an answer before he begins scrubbing away at the mess of dried, and fresh, blood. "The way you look, honest people are more likely to shoot us than they are to help us."  
  
The way he prods at the skin around Porthos' eye, swollen shut now, and frowns at the gash by his temple gives away his real intensions. If Porthos thought it would do him any good, he would tell Athos not to waste his energy. He might feel, and look, terrible but he has a hard skull and he's survived worse blows to the head in the past. Most likely, there's nothing wrong with him that some rest won't cure. And even if there is, there's not much they can do about it out here.  
  
Now Athos' shoulder, that's another issue. It needs taking care of and the sooner, the better. It's a two man job, Porthos knows from experience, although the one time it had happened to him it had taken five Musketeers to pin him down as the smith, a man built like an ox and with the strength to match his appearance, wrenched Porthos' arm back into its place. Aramis loved to tell the story to new recruits, claiming it to be part of a cunning plan to instil respect in them.  
  
But even if Porthos can't fix his friend's shoulder, at least he can make sure it won't jostle and move around quite so much.  
  
"C'me here," he slurs, gently tugging Athos close enough for Porthos to reach the buckle of his belt. Athos freezes at the touch, and when Porthos glances up he catches the slightly wide-eyed look on his friend's face.  
  
"Don't look at me like that," he scolds, mock-serious. "I'm not Aramis. Even with my brains scrambled, I won't mistake your ugly face for a lady's."  
  
Well, that's what he tries to say at least. Athos frowns at him, but allows him to undo the belt and tug the coat off his shoulders. The next few moments are unpleasant for both of them, but at the end of it Athos' arm lays secured against his chest. They're both panting and sweating though, all too aware that they need to get going again.  
  
The cold water has settled uncomfortably in Porthos' belly, and no sooner have they set off before it's his turn to be sick. Athos politely looks the other way, even as he digs his good shoulder into Porthos' chest to keep him from collapsing. While it goes unsaid by both of them, they know that if they go down, they'll stay down unless Porthos manages to get up by himself.  
  
xxx  
  
Eventually they come to a farm house. The dog, an ugly mutt with sharp teeth, attaches himself to Porthos' leg as Athos hammers on the door. He doesn't remember what happens next.  
  
xxx  
  
Porthos wakes in a bed with pillows and warm blankets, a damp cloth covering his forehead and a familiar voice humming a just as familiar lullaby. His mouth tastes foul, his head hurts and someone's going to pay for the tooth he's lost. But he's out of that god-forsaken forest, and the only place he'll be asked to walk is the taproom. And even that can wait until later.  
  
"There you are," Aramis says, a relieved smile lighting up his face.  
  
"Athos?" Porthos asks, suddenly gripped by worry.  
  
"Fixed him right up."  
  
Porthos relaxes, allowing his eyelids to fall shut once more.  
  
"Told him you would," he says.  
  
Then he falls asleep.


End file.
